


aesthetically pleasing

by cantando_siempre



Series: in a moment of breathless delight [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Grantaire, Baker Enjolras, Café Musain, Dancer Grantaire, M/M, all characters except enjolras grantaire cosette and courfeyrac and only mentioned, cosette is still and always will be the best little sibling, enjolras blushes so much honestly it's worrying take the poor boy to a doctor, enjolras still and always will just want to kiss grantaire, grantaire pls find clothes that actually fit, references to the brick, second meetings, srsly enjolras clean up your baking shit and stop getting it everywhere, the BrickTM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 22:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14364984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantando_siempre/pseuds/cantando_siempre
Summary: “It’s the devil’s hour,” Grantaire slurs.  “Since we’re up, are we devils?”“Me, perhaps.  You?  No, I’d more call you an angel."  Enjolras contemplates.  "Isn’t the devil’s hour 3am?”“Mayybe.  Isn’t it 3 now?”“No.”“The witching hour!” Grantaire crows deliriously.“No, that’s 12am.”“It’s not 12?”“Nowhere near it,” Enjolras says.  “It’s 5.”“The nymph’s hour!”“That’s not even a thing.”“Whatever you say.”-or: grantaire's not drunk, just tired; precious sleep-deprived boys build a camaderie based on mutual exhaustion; enjolras just wants to touch grantaire (he'd love a kiss but he'd settle for a touch); and cosette is literally the best sibling on this earth (or maybe that's éponine).





	aesthetically pleasing

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone! by now y'all probably know the drill; but for anyone new, this work takes place in an alternate universe i set up in my earlier works cocoa powder and too-red lips, so take a gander at those if you'd like to know how these awkward dorks met!  
> warnings - minor swears (a**, sh**), mentions of kisses? idk  
> constructive criticism, kudos, and comments are my bread and butter, so please provide lots of sustenance for a hungry, butter-loving author! have fun!

It’s been a week since Enjolras met Grantaire.

It’s been a week, and Grantaire hasn’t come by _once._

Cosette can attest that Enjolras has been at the Café every day since Grantaire came by, and Enjolras can tell she’s getting worried.  Although the two foster siblings do own the Musain, like responsible adults they’ve hired some employees so they can have a break sometimes and focus on school.  However, Enjolras knows that _Cosette_ knows that he hasn’t done any schoolwork this week, and has only ripped himself away from the Café to go to classes for a few hours and then materialized right in the Musain kitchen again like some kind of baker ghost, maybe one who died of sugar-overload after eating too many chocolate chips. 

He also knows that Cosette recognizes his stress-baking tendencies even if he’s still in denial about them, and can tell she’s worried about _him_ getting sick from the mountains of pastries, bread, and cake he’s been baking and stuffing into their shared apartment.  The Grantaire Incident (as Cosette’s taken to calling it), (Enjolras calls it the Person with the Obscene Ass and Lips Who Is Also Known As Grantaire Incident; POALWIAKAG, but only in his mind) occurred last Friday. 

Saturday, Enjolras spent in a dumbfounded haze, floating around the apartment and being disgusted with himself in general for acting like a teenaged One Direction fan, or like his 13-year-old self when he first learned of the existence of Aaron Tveit. 

Sunday was the falling action, wherein Enjolras took to interrogating Cosette at random moments about Grantaire.

_“Cosette, do you think he likes me?”_

_Cosette screams, having just stepped out of the shower with a towel wrapped around her in what she thought was an empty apartment.  “What are you doing here? I thought you were meeting Combeferre about the ABC meeting next Thursday.” she gasps, phone lying forlorn and abandoned at her feet._

_“I was, but I figured I’d stay and ask you if you wanted to go to the Café with me,” Enjolras says eagerly._

_“Enjolras.” she groans.  “No, I do not want to go to the Café.  This is my one day off this week, and yours too.  Yes, he likes you, and you should also consider that he’s human and might just have things to do!  Shocking, I know,” she deadpans.  “Guess who else has responsibilities?” she hints._

_“I know, but Combeferre’s capable of planning the meeting himself!”_

_“Have you heard yourself?” she asks, crossing the living room to grab her speakers from the counter.  “You need to get out, big brother.  Go help Combeferre; he’s going to worry that you’ve been abducted and replaced by aliens soon if you don’t get back to your little revolutionary student group.”_

_“Fine,” he draws out, slinging his bag over his shoulder and walking out the door.  He’ll just pop by the Café on his way to Combeferre’s (never mind that it’s in the opposite direction)._  

Or the time on Monday when Enjolras interrupted her in the middle of studying.

_“Cosette –”_

_“Enjolras, I swear if you ask me about him again I will either maim you or throw this book at you,” she growls, hefting a textbook as thick as his head._

_“Which one?”_

_“I haven’t decided yet,” she muses._

_Silence reigns for a few moments, Cosette chewing on the end of a highlighter while Enjolras picks at his ripped jeans._

_“But, like, does he –”_

_A screech flies through the air, along with a lethal textbook and an uncapped highlighter._

Or Tuesday, when Enjolras meets up with Courfeyrac and informs him of Grantaire’s existence.

_“Hello, dearest friend!” Courfeyrac sings, plopping down across from Enjolras in the Musain.  “Care to tell me why we’re meeting in the café you own and work at most days of the week?  Have you finally cracked and moved in?”_

_“Ok Courfeyrac, listen.  I met this really cute – hot – aesthetically pleasing guy here last Friday – hide me!” Enjolras hisses, catapulting himself under the tiny, wrought-iron, see through table.  Hearing Courfeyrac die of laughter above him, Enjolras peers out from under the table, suspecting he saw Grantaire over by the counter with his annoyingly untidy mass of curls.  The man turns around, and it’s not Grantaire, and Enjolras’s heart sinks.  “False alarm,” he sighs, clambering back into his seat._

_“So, this cute hot aesthetically pleasing person,” Courfeyrac starts, swirling his peppermint stick in his green tea (bleh).  “Did you make out with him like with Feuilly?”_

_“Why does everyone think I randomly make out with people?” Enjolras wails.  “One time!”_

Wednesday, Enjolras is plummeting.  No sign of Grantaire at all, even though Enjolras has had Cosette keeping watch and has threatened the employees with being fired if they don’t keep an eye out for a sarcastic elf-eared man.  The stress-baking is starting to emerge, and he spends all day in the Musain kitchen and walks out that night with his eyes closed because he feels he may cry if he has to see the mess he’s made in the kitchen. 

Thursday, the stress-baking, sleep deprivation, and depression are all melding themselves together into one glorious cake of disaster.  Enjolras spends the day at the Musain with Cosette, switching between baking, sleeping while using a sheet cake as a pillow, and moaning while slumped on the counter.  Combeferre visits with Courfeyrac and they both find the whole situation hilarious along with Cosette, considering how fierce he is.  Enjolras is quite stunned himself, because ordinarily he’d be planning rallies or writing angry emails to his more intolerant professors, but instead he’s spent the whole week baking enough sweets to feed an army, or maybe just Éponine’s little siblings.

Friday, the consequences of the stress-baking have made themselves known.  Cosette opened the bathroom cabinet that morning while looking for her eyeliner to loan to Éponine, and five different types of fruit Danish tumbled out.  Enjolras went to the hall closet to grab more paper towels to wipe the fruit jelly off of Cosette’s makeup bag, and an avalanche of muffins and scones had assaulted him when he opened the door. Finally, in the late afternoon, Enjolras accepts his fate of never seeing Grantaire again and heads to the Musain with Cosette.  He plans to bake her favorite pastry when they get there (baklava, a pain in the ass to make because of the paper-thin filo but he’ll do it for her) as an apology for the whole last week.

Grantaire is leaning against the closed door of the Musain when they arrive.

Enjolras starts to turn around and walk away before Cosette clenches his arm with the copious and terrifying strength of a determined sister and turns him right back around again.  “Hi, Grantaire!” she greets.  “Fancy seeing you!  What brings you around here; do you need something?”

“Really, what I _need_ right now is a coffee and perhaps a pastry,” Grantaire deliberates.  “There’s one particular thing I want, though,” he murmurs, his eyes sweeping up and down Enjolras.  Enjolras can feel his neck starting to flush, and so he barges past Grantaire without a word to unlock the café door. 

Unfortunately, he fails to realize that Grantaire is next to the lock, and so Enjolras has to press the sides of their hips together and feel Grantaire’s breath on his already hot neck as he fiddles with the lock.  Just as Grantaire opens his mouth to say something else, the lock clicks open and Enjolras sweeps inside, tossing his coat and bag behind the counter and sprinting into the kitchen.  Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, Enjolras sees a bewildered and _maybe_ disappointed Grantaire staring after him, looking to Cosette for an explanation to find she’s as confused as he is.

“What did I do wrong?” he hears Grantaire mumble, sounding dejected.

“I’m sure you didn’t do anything, sweetheart,” Cosette comforts.  “He’s just been a bit off this week.  Give him a minute to cool off and then I’ll try to drag him out for you to talk to him.”

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras throws the ingredients for a rough puff pastry into a mixing bowl.  _Nothing’s wrong with him_ , he reasons as he kneads the dough.  _What could be wrong?  It’s not like Grantaire could’ve visited the Café at least once instead of leaving him hanging.  He could’ve sent a message through Jehan or dropped by or texted –_

Realizing he’s started punching the dough and has kneaded it far too much, Enjolras groans and tosses the dough in the trash, starting a new mix.  _He doesn’t have your number_ , he reminds himself.  _He’s under no obligation to talk to you or do anything at all.  Sometimes people just like to flirt for fun.  Maybe Cosette’s wrong and he doesn’t even like you like that._ Scrunching his nose up, he suppresses that particular thought and spreads his rough puff in a tart tin, sliding it into the oven and starting some filo dough for Cosette’s thank-you-for-dealing-with-me baklava. 

“Enjolras?” his sister says gently behind him.  “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine, Cosette,” he sighs.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“I can tell when you’re lying.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Told you,” she giggles.

“I just – I don’t know what to do.  Last week was a fluke, Cosette; you know I’m not usually that capable or smooth or suave.  I don’t know how to handle this or what to expect, and how can I get what I want when I don’t even know what I want?”

“If it helps, I don’t think Grantaire knows what he wants either.  I was talking to him before I came in, you know.  He just wants to talk to you, and he’s worried that he did something wrong.”

“How could he believe that?” Enjolras says incredulously.  “I’m the one that can’t even talk to him.”

“I really do think he likes you, Enjolras.  To me, he seems a bit insecure, and he just seems afraid of messing things up or going too far.  Talk to him, please.”

“Fine, if you think it’s a good idea.”

“I do.” she says, stepping forward and hugging him, even though she barely comes up to his shoulder.  “Go get your man,” she laughs.

Ruffling Cosette’s hair as she shrieks and bats at his hands like a kitten, Enjolras peers out of the kitchen.  Grantaire is slumped at the counter, fiddling with an old eyebrow pencil Éponine left there on Tuesday and drawing what looks to be a detailed sketch on his wrist.  Suddenly, he jumps up like he’s been flattened with an idea and strides out to some open space in the Café, moving chairs across the floor.  He stands there, considering, and then does something that makes Enjolras’s brain short-circuit a bit.  More than a bit, truly.

Grantaire is _dancing._

Grantaire is dancing in the middle of the Musain, doing what seems to be some risqué theatre choreography as he bites his lip, roughly, with his eyes screwed shut.  His eyes snap open and Enjolras ducks out of sight, peeking back out to see Grantaire swinging his hips sinuously in a circle, his eyes burning a hole in the wall with their intensity.  As he blushes furiously Enjolras’s jaw drops, and he snaps it closed as he steps further out of the kitchen when Cosette nudges his back from where she was spying.  When he sees Enjolras, Grantaire jumps and tries to slide back into his seat, hiding his arm with the drawing on it under the countertop and looking guilty as Enjolras blinks hard and then focuses his gaze on Grantaire’s.  “What are you –”

“Nothing!” Grantaire cuts him off.  “I mean,” he clears his throat, “how are you?”

“I’m good,” Enjolras says slowly, wondering what’s got Grantaire so freaked out.  “How have you been?  Busy?”

“Oh, shit,” Grantaire groans.  “Listen, Enjolras, I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not – for not coming back sooner.  I just thought I made you uncomfortable and I couldn’t tell what was going through your head and I just – I got scared.” Grantaire rushes out, his dark skin tinting.

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to say anything, I know it’s a bit much.  I just wanted to come back and apologize and I’ll totally get out of your café now, just let me –”

“No!” Enjolras exclaims.  Grantaire looks startled, his eyes widening.  “I mean, no, you don’t have to go.  I’d like it if you maybe stayed?” he says hesitantly, cursing how a blush rises to his face.  Come to think of it, he doesn’t blush much except around Grantaire.

“I’d…I’d love to.” Grantaire breathes and Enjolras realizes he’s stepped closer to Grantaire and is leaning across the counter when he feels Grantaire’s breath on his face.

Taking the opportunity, Enjolras’s hand darts out and clasps around Grantaire’s wrist, yanking his hand out from under the counter and up to his eyeline.  There on Grantaire’s wrist is…a drawing of him?

“Is this me?” he asks incredulously.

“Um, yeah.”

“It’s very good.”

“Oh.  Thanks.”

They fall silent as Enjolras examines the sketch, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing back and forth across Grantaire’s pulse point.  “So…” Grantaire draws out.  “What now?”

Steeling himself, Enjolras lets go of Grantaire’s arm and bites down on his lip.  “Well, I could take you up on your offer from last week,” he says lowly, pulling his eyes up to Grantaire’s and releasing his lip from in between his teeth.

Grantaire visibly gulps.

“Where –” he starts, voice high, when Cosette appears behind Enjolras’s shoulder. 

“I’m really sorry to interrupt,” she says when Enjolras fixes her with a surreptitious glare, “but I have to go.  Gavroche’s in the hospital and Ép’s freaking out and Azelma says she’s pretty sure I’m the only one who can calm her down.”

“Oh, ok,” Enjolras says, immediately distracted.  “Do I need to come with you?”  He doesn’t notice Grantaire’s face fall a miniscule amount, but Cosette does. 

“No, I don’t think so,” she assures.  Hefting her purse and coat in her arms, she starts toward the door.  “Don’t forget about the Baptistine order!”

Enjolras’s mood plummets to the cheerful sound of the tinkling door bell.

“What’s the Baptistine order?” Grantaire questions.

“It’s an order Madame Baptistine across the street placed yesterday,” Enjolras replies, while trying to figure out how to get out of it.  “You know, the lady with the antique shop?  It’s massive, something like 500 Jaffa cakes.  She wants them for some tea-party-themed auction she’s having at the antique shop tomorrow morning.  While she didn’t give us any notice at all, she’s offered a lot of money and Cosette and I couldn’t afford to turn her down.”  Finding no escape, Enjolras moans internally.  “Grantaire –”

“Yeah?” he answers nervously.

“I…can’t go out with you.”

“I understand, of course you’ve changed your mind, who wouldn’t honestly –” Grantaire says, already backing away.

“No!” Enjolras cries, grabbing Grantaire’s shoulder.  “Shit, stop making assumptions!  I was going to say I can’t go out today, because I’ve got to finish this order or Cosette will kill me.  Maybe we could take a rain check?”

“Oh, ok,” Grantaire sighs in poorly disguised relief.  “Alright.  I’ll see you soon?”

“Definitely.  Come back anytime, and once again I’m really sorry, Grantaire.”

“It’s all good,” Grantaire says, moving to pick up his now cold coffee Cosette made him before hesitating.  “Actually – nevermind.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Grantaire.”

“Fine!  I don’t know much about baking, but I could…help you?” he offers shyly.

“That actually sounds perfect!  We still won’t be able to go out today because it’ll take a while and I’ve got to get back home for a class tomorrow morning, but this way we can still talk and shit.”  Enjolras says, an uncontrollable smile lighting up his face.  _He wants to spend time with me!  He’s willing to help a practical stranger bake Jaffa cakes when he doesn’t know anything about baking just because he wants to spend time with me.  Guess Cosette was right.  But then again, Cosette’s always right._

*******

“This isn’t possible,” Grantaire groans half an hour later.

“You don’t think I can do it?” Enjolras challenges, plunging his hands into the dough as he sneaks a peek at Grantaire.  Grantaire is perched on the edge of one of the counters, and his dangling legs are spread wide.  His head is tipped up, examining the ceiling like it’s an ancient Renaissance fresco, and the column of his throat is in full view.  His long neck dips into the deep hollows of his collarbones, which are exposed by his too-large sweatshirt that slips off his narrow right shoulder.  Enjolras wonders why he finds himself wanting to kiss and touch this man so often, and resolves to ask Cosette if there’s something wrong with him and if he should see a doctor.

“I mean, it’s nothing about you, this is just an impossible task in general.  How the hell does someone expect two bakers to make 500 Jaffa cakes by tomorrow morning?”

“I can do it.”

“Enjolras –”

“No, I can do it.  You can help if you want or not, but I’m going to do it either way,” he says with determination.  “I’ll prove it.”

*******

“It’s the devil’s hour,” Grantaire slurs hours later, mouth barely moving as he plops another circle of frosting onto a Jaffa cake.  “Since we’re up, are we devils?”

“Me, perhaps.  You?  No, I’d more call you an angel.  Maybe a Greek deity,” Enjolras contemplates.  “A muse?  Aphrodite, Terpsichore?”

“Terpsichore?  Why her?”  Grantaire asks, not-so-subtly skating over Aphrodite all together.

“Grantaire, I saw you dancing earlier.”

“You did?” Grantaire chokes.

“Just a bit,” Enjolras rushes.  “You were good though!  Amazing, honestly.”

Grantaire snorts so hard he almost starts coughing.  “Sure, Apollo, whatever you want.”

“Why do you – nevermind.  Isn’t the devil’s hour 3am?”

“Mayybe.  Isn’t it 3 now?”

“No.”

“The witching hour!” Grantaire crows deliriously.

“No, that’s 12am.”

“It’s not 12?”

“Nowhere near it,” Enjolras says, checking his old, battered phone and starting when he realizes the time.  “It’s 5.”

“The nymph’s hour!”

“That’s not even a thing.”

“Whatever you say.”

Enjolras leans over, realizing they didn’t set the oven timer for the last batch of Jaffa cakes.  “Grantaire, how many minutes have those cakes been in for?”

“2? 13? 54? 24601?”

“Nevermind, you’re too far gone,” Enjolras huffs fondly.  Grabbing the tray of Jaffa cakes out of the oven, he coughs as smoke wafts up from them.  “These aren’t salvageable, but I think we made enough that losing this batch is ok.”

“So we’re done?” Grantaire perks up.

“Yeah.  Listen, Grantaire, although I appreciate it, you didn’t have to stay just to help me.  I don’t want you to have stayed up with me and resented it.”

“I enjoyed it.  I enjoyed spending time with you.” Grantaire says seriously.  “Really, I did.”

Enjolras blushes (yet again).  “Good to know, then,” he mutters, giving an awkward thumbs-up and berating himself.

“Back to our other conversati-thingy,” Grantaire mumbles, plopping down on the messy linoleum floor in front of the oven.  “I wouldn’t call myself a pessimist, just more of a …realist.  If you don’t ever get your hopes up about something, you won’t be disappointed, so better to not have hope in the first place than to be sad.”

“The optimistic outlook on pessimism,” Enjolras snorts, sliding down to sit next to Grantaire.  “So… you believe in nothing?”

“Not quite.  I believe in you,” Grantaire murmurs, unnerving sincerity coating his words even though he’s almost falling asleep, and Enjolras sees his eyes slipping closed from where he’s slumped on the floor and pressed up against the pleasantly warm oven next to Enjolras.  Enjolras stiffens and holds his breath as Grantaire’s head drops on his shoulder, and he’s afraid of moving and doing something wrong until he hears Grantaire give a deep sigh and relax, signaling that he’s fallen asleep.  Mind racing, Enjolras cautiously tilts his head to the side until it rests on top of Grantaire’s and curls his hand around Grantaire’s.  _Well, it certainly wasn’t the worst first date ever,_ Enjolras reflects.

Gently pulling Grantaire’s hand up to his lips, Enjolras places a whisper of a kiss on his knuckles.

_In fact, Enjolras doesn’t think it could’ve gone much better._


End file.
